


Suburban Sickness

by Atticus



Series: Domestication Series [2]
Category: Killing Eve
Genre: Bottom!Villanelle, F/F, Kinda?, Orgasm Denial, Praise Kink, Smut, Soft Villanelle Hours
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-08
Updated: 2019-12-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:21:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21718336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atticus/pseuds/Atticus
Summary: It is like this. Difficult. Flashes of wanting will come at Eve from the back of her mind, creeping in from the sides like an ambush. It seems as though Villanelle is still the same, painful and spoiled and rude in all the ways she was before. She is not like Eve, who feels so different now, feels like she is carrying a secret like a lead weight.And so Eve is most of the way to drunk when Villanelle shows up on the wet doorstep of her home.Sequel to 'Virtues Uncounted' but can be read as a stand alone.
Relationships: Villanelle/Eve Polastri
Series: Domestication Series [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1568035
Comments: 60
Kudos: 423





	Suburban Sickness

**Author's Note:**

> Alright so someone in the comments of my last fic called me 'Queen' - so here I am with another fic because I'm hopeless.

Eve is most of the way to drunk when Villanelle shows up on the wet doorstep of her home (which is embarrassing, because it is 11pm on a Thursday and she is alone).

It has been nearly a fortnight since the hotel in Dean and Eve hasn’t seen Villanelle since, not properly. Not outside of work and Carolyn and Aaron Peel. Not alone.

But now, backlit by street lights and a passing cab, here she is. In a dark dress with hair piled up in an artful coil, she looks like an advertisement for something Eve could never afford. Her fingers flash with rings, and around her neck is something silver – something almost gaudy.

Eve is wearing a long cardigan and her sweatpants with the bleach stain.

“Hello, Eve.” Villanelle says coolly, draws the ‘E’ all the way from the bottom of her throat. Then on the tail end of a sigh, “I was in the neighbourhood and I thought I would drop in.”

Eve is prepared to play along, struggles for something powerful and coy, but she can see that Villanelle’s black heels are already dangling from her right hand, ready to place in the pile by the door.

It strikes her as odd, so un-Villanelle, and Eve thinks that maybe she hasn’t come to play properly - not really. Instead, Eve shifts uncomfortably. In the office it is like this. Difficult. Flashes of wanting will come at Eve from the back of her mind, creeping in from the sides like an ambush. It seems as though Villanelle is still the same, painful and spoiled and rude in all the ways she was before. She is not like Eve, who feels so different now, feelings like she is carrying a secret like a lead weight.

When she looks (and _god_ , does she want to look), Eve sees that Villanelle’s dress is a deep blue, but not so dark that Eve can’t see a widening bloom of blood spreading from a spot on her chest, just below her shoulder. A line of lace trim sticks to her sternum in a sticky red web.

“Oh, fuck, Villanelle…” Eve starts, but Villanelle is already pushing past her and into the warmth of the hallway. When she is inside and the door is closed, she buckles markedly.

She slumps against the wall, grins and pulls provocatively at the neckline of her dress - presents to Eve her pale collarbones, the curve of her breast, and finally a sickeningly deep wound. She arches her neck back, peers coyly through her lashes, and for a moment Eve isn’t sure what Villanelle wants her to look at first.

Eve thinks of her childhood cats, flaunting and proud as they dragged in some wounded, fluttering bird. Eve remembers the way she would scoop up and tend to the feathered pile, gentle it while the cats watched on with a focused hunger. Somehow, in this moment, Villanelle is both cat and bird all at once. She looks up and there is a moment of stillness as they both stare.

“Eve.” Villanelle whines. _Bird_ thinks Eve.

“You need a doctor.” Eve urges, hears the way her own voice is reedy with panic, and Villanelle’s eyes flash at her with defiance. _Cat_.

“No doctors. You’re meant to do it.” There is a sulkiness to her voice, but underneath something closer to genuine fear is lurking. The blood on her dress is darker now.

“Why? Why did you come here?” Eve asks, and Villanelle’s first reaction is to balk. _Small, scared, hurt_ flicker across her face for a moment before she snatches them back inside herself. She presses her hand against the wound, as though she has just remembered that she can. She is shaking her head resolutely.

“No doctors. No Konstantin. You need to do it.” Eve wants to ask why, wants to know how this happened and if the person who did it is looking for her, wants to know why they can’t just go to the hospital the way that Villanelle had last time.

There is blood seeping between Villanelle’s fingers now.

“Shit, I – shit.” Eve starts, running her fingers through her hair, head shaking, and Villanelle’s breath is picking up, coming too fast and too shallow.

“Eve. You need to.” Villanelle groans. Her voice is thin and quick and her eyes have started to roll like a horse ready to bolt. Eve can feel the way that the size of her own abject panic is sinking over Villanelle like a wave, picking her up with it and sweeping her under.

“You need to help Eve – because I can’t let it go sick like last time. I don’t- I can’t -”

Eve is starting to realise that with the hospital somehow out of the question, there is no plan B. She wants to tell Villanelle that this is a problem for her handler, but oh, _shit_ , she’s Villanelle’s handler and she really hadn’t planned for this at all.

She realises that Villanelle herself has no idea what to do if Eve says no – realises she _is_ saying no.

In Villanelle’s bright hazel eyes there are tears.

“Eve!”

“Okay. Shit, okay.” Eve says finally, anything to stop the way the Villanelle’s voice is turning up at the edges, creeping into hysterical.

Villanelle is expecting this from her, and part of having a cat is being the person they drag the bird home to.

Eve stutters her way to the kitchen, Villanelle weaving behind her with footfalls heavy and loud and not like her at all – Eve tries not to notice the way she pulls the blinds closed sharply on every window they pass.

When they reach the kitchen Eve falters for a moment, doesn’t know what she had planned to do upon arriving. She reaches out and grabs the nearest dish towel, and then her abandoned wine glass with the other hand.

“What do I do?” She whispers. She drinks generously.

Eve has taken a first-aid course with Elena – had arrived outrageously late and made lewd jokes about the resuscitation dummy. She tries to remember it now, the way she is meant to hold a wound closed and what to look for. She remembers that the gauze on the first-aid course had been clean and white, and everything had smelled sharply of antiseptic and plastic.

Now, here, the kitchen towel she is holding has an old yellow stain on it, and Villanelle smells like iron and sour sweat mixed with good perfume. Eve thinks she might be sick.

Eve changes her mind then, suddenly. Thinks _bathroom_ not _kitchen_ , and wordlessly begins a kind of absent wander toward the white tiles of the downstairs bathroom. It is only when she arrives, switches on the light, that she thinks to look back for Villanelle, who is slouched behind her.

In the fluorescent light some of her beauty is gone, replaced with a sickly sheen.

Eve reaches out for her. When she touches the wound with the cloth, it gives way around the edges.

Villanelle groans low in her chest, an animal sound.

It takes careful instruction from Villanelle – how to clean it, what not to touch, how to close it all up like a tight package.

When it is time for the sutures, Eve has to dart to the hallway cupboard for the sewing box where she has only bright gaudy colours – pinks and greens and blues. On her return, she detours through the kitchen, vomits quickly and quietly into the kitchen sink. Villanelle is still waiting when she returns – must have heard her, but says nothing.

When the stitching is finished it is bandages that come next, clean, soft white gauze – and Eve is relieved by it. It is the simplest of the steps involved, and Eve is pleased to wrap it soft and slow around the contours of a pale shoulder.

“Ow, Eve!” Villanelle whimpers, all hooded eyes and misery under Eve’s soft touches. She has been silent thus far beyond her clinical instructions, and Eve is pleased that she is feeling well enough to be so petulant.

“Who did this for you? Before MI6?” Eve asks, careful not to say ‘before me’ and Villanelle is staring at herself in the mirror.

“Konstantin.” Villanelle says, shrugs, and then gasps sharply at the pain. Glares at Eve like she is to blame.

“Who before that?” Eve presses, and Villanelle says nothing – glares hotly down at her hands like a child sat before a scolding teacher.

Eve ignores her, finishes her work. She wants to feel pity, but if she does she might feel everything else too.

With Nico gone it is harder to be distracted, hard to ignore the tangled complicated presence of herself. Previously there would have been chores and friends and ‘how was your days’ to fill the space, but not now. Now there is laundry piling up, Indian take-out on speed dial.

In the evenings Eve will stalk the house with a glass of wine and avoid difficult questions from herself.

Twice, she has made and deleted an account for a queer dating app.

The wound beneath her hands is better now – cleaned and stitched and hidden beneath a white expanse of gauze. With the ugly red of it covered Eve can breathe again, and she slips her eyes closed and pulls in a reassuring drag of night air – softly exhales through her nose.

“Can I stay?” Villanelle asks, and the sound pulls Eve’s eyes open again. It isn’t brash or flirtatious or performative. It is open and honest. It is strangely calm, in a way that tells Eve that she will leave, if she has to. If Eve says no, that will be okay, too.

And Eve tries to convince herself that it is exhaustion and the remnants of shock that make her say yes.

****

They aren’t the same size. Looking through her clothes, Eve feels too thin and brittle and narrow. Her shirts and tanks and sweaters all feel wrong, and Eve blushes to think of the thick hardness of Villanelle, the fullness of her muscles and the softness of her hips.

Niko’s clothes might have been perfect, but they are long gone now, packed into boxes and shoved into backpacks and carried out of her life in ever increasing displays of sadness, incredulity and defeat.

Eventually, digging through the last of her drawers, she finds a soft old wife-beater – something Niko would wear underneath a crisp, ironed shirt. It is white and faintly ribbed, smells of the fabric softener Eve hasn’t restocked on since Niko left. She thinks that maybe this is the sort of moment that is meant to be difficult – in a movie, she thinks that she might hold it to her face, sob into the fabric or smile some distant rueful smile. But it isn’t a movie, and it is only a singlet – Eve has no trouble handing it to Villanelle as she moulds a cozy nest of blankets and pillows on the fold-out couch.

She would like to see it on her – the wife-beater – but Eve doesn’t wait to see her pull it on. She leaves a glass of water by the couch, turns on the hallway light and retreats up the stairs to the dark cavern of her bedroom. She leaves the door open.

She is only in bed for a moment before Villanelle follows. Eve is grateful for that, doesn’t know if she could have handled the tension of lying awake and waiting through the night, listening for the padding of soft feet on the landing. She couldn’t bear the hot bristle of shame to be the one to break first – to whisper her way into the living room and pry open her needs for Villanelle’s greedy eyes and hands.

She is grateful that instead it is Villanelle, hand curled against the wood of the doorframe as she leans gently into it. She is tentative, almost shy – curling herself carefully around the white gauze lump of her shoulder.

Lit from behind by the yellow hallway light, she is all long silhouettes and soft edges. She rolls her head softly where it is pressed to the door-frame. A soft ribbon of hair falls down past her temple, and it is then that Eve knows with certainty that she is going to kiss her tonight.

“Can I?” Villanelle asks, glancing at the bed and gesturing softly with her knee. Eve nods.

Eve doesn’t bother feigning disinterest – something about the dull light and the warm skin-smell of Villanelle has made her soft and honest.

Villanelle settles in beside her, kisses her soft and brief and sweet and curls into her chest. She rolls to face away, presses her herself back against Eve. When Eve breathes in her hair smells clean and tart, like citrus.

Villanelle breathes out and it sounds like letting go – the tension leaves her muscles perceptibly and Eve marvels at the way she has settled in so easily, claimed her the way a cat might perch upon a lap. And Eve realises she has settled right back at her – reaching out to pet the softness offered up.

On the bedside table is the spare roll of gauze, her pocket knife, and the bloodied necklace Eve had carried from the bathroom - and it occurs to Eve that Villanelle is everywhere now. She is in her house, in her clothes, in her bed. Downstairs, the wet viscous red of her is smeared over Eve’s life.

Eve has the sense that this life, her real life, has always been happening somewhere in the distance without her. Has the sense that she isn’t starting anything new, but instead that she has finally joined it – slotted into place. The room is beautiful in the dull gold light and smells of Villanelle. Eve stings to have missed the years before this.

Pressed against her, Villanelle is shifting in place. She reaches for Eve’s hand and pulls it over her to rest on her clothed belly. Here, Eve can feel her stomach rise and fall with the smooth round wheels of her breathing. In and out. In and out.

Almost from the very beginning Eve knows what is going to happen next, but her stomach still churns with a kind of nervous excitement when Villanelle pulls at her hand again. This time she is pulling it down, holding it and pressing it predictably to the juncture of her thighs. Eve lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding, and feels Villanelle’s responding shiver thrum through her collarbones and into her chest.

Eve sweeps her thumb softly, steadily across the front of Villanelle’s underwear. She presses in slightly against the spot where she knows that Villanelle is sensitive. She waits for the gasp, and presses again when she gets it. Villanelle tries to roll then, tries to turn and press back. She is hoping for hands and lips and tongue and teeth. But Eve tightens her grip, holds her in place while she continues the soft, maddening sweep of her thumb.

Villanelle has gotten her way entirely, she is exactly where she wants to be and Eve doesn’t think she could stand giving her this too without a fight.

“Stay still.” She whispers, and Villanelle groans out a kind of reluctant, pleasured sound as Eve’s movements continue.

Eve is patient with her ministrations, just lets it all build and build until Villanelle is hot and writhing and pleading. Her thumb sweeps again and again in tiny circles, her hand begins to cramp with the small repetitive motion but she continues.

“Eve, please.” Villanelle whines eventually, her hand reaching down to try to pull or press Eve’s hand into something firmer. Eve’s automatic instinct is to concede – to touch her harder or faster or in any way she wants her. Instead, she shrugs her off, stills her hand for a moment and breathes in deeply.

“Do you want me to stop?” Eve asks, and she knows she is being cruel - savours the hard, bright taste of it.

“No.” Villanelle whines, and Eve moves the hand still pressed between them beneath shivering ribs.

“Then stay still.”

She presses her newly freed hand just below the soft curve of Villanelle’s breasts, rubs there soothingly to counter the harshness of it all. With her other hand, she resumes the same excruciatingly soft circles, feels the way that Villanelle has grown hot and swollen beneath her touch.

It is a torturously slow build up. Villanelle’s thighs are shaking, and Eve can feel the way the material of her panties slides easier now from the way she is slick and wet and hot. Eve can tell that there is less friction, adjusts her hand to press just slightly harder – still just this side of not-enough.

The way Villanelle’s body reacts to her painfully slow touch – curling toes and hands balled into tight fists around the sheets, the soft wanting noises – sends a shivering pleasure through Eve that settles hotly at her clit. For a moment she wants to abandon this, wants to roll Villanelle into her and ask for her mouth, her hand, the hardness of her thigh. But that isn’t the game, and Eve is nothing if not obstinate.

Eve makes pleased, encouraging noises into the shell of Villanelle’s ear, who forgets to check her movements for a moment, and with a hitching sigh she rolls her hips to chase the pressure between her legs. The movement grinds her ass against Eve’s aching clit, and it is Eve’s resulting cry – hungry, desperate, rasping – that finally pushes Villanelle over the edge.

She bears down on Eve’s hand with straining, jerking movements. Her breath is coming in half-voiced cries and Eve can hear the way they rise in tone and volume before they splinter into gasping pants. Eve knows from personal experience that the long, slow build up will have made everything sharper and harder, almost too much. The almost pained expression on Villanelle’s face seems to confirm it, and Eve groans weakly into soft pale skin at the sight.

Villanelle shakes and huffs the last of her orgasm into the pillow, her hand like a vice against Eve’s hip. Eve presses her hand flat against the soft heat of Villanelle’s cunt, pressing her palm in firmly for Villanelle to rub herself against as she chases down the last flickering tendrils of her orgasm.

Eve is almost painfully aroused now, but she is pushing hard at Villanelle’s hip, turning her forward into the bed and pushing down until Villanelle’s hips, belly, chest are pressed flush into the sheets. Villanelle gasps softly and turns her head to the side, still flushed and glassy eyed from her orgasm. She watches over the curve of her injured shoulder as Eve begins to pull at the thin, flimsy material of her underwear and moans thickly when she realises that Eve means to take it off her.

Eve keeps one arm pressed flat between Villanelle’s shoulder blades, uses the other to slide the g-string down over Villanelle’s hips. She leaves it gathered halfway down long, pale thighs – likes the way it digs in slightly when Villanelle parts her legs for her. The gusset is shiny with the evidence Villanelle’s excitement and Eve can see the same wetness glistening over the inside of Villanelle’s thighs.

Eve runs her hand back up, scratches along the sensitive skin until her hand is high enough to palm softly at the firm skin of Villanelle’s ass. She is still leaning into her other arm stretched across Villanelle’s back, favours the side of her uninjured shoulder and looks for any sign of pain. When none comes, she watches the other woman shiver and gasp at the vague pressure, the feeling of being held down.

“Good girl.” Eve breathes out. It is soft, impossibly soft, and Villanelle turns her face back to whine into the pillows.

Eve slides two fingers gently down beyond the cleft of Villanelle’s ass, rubs at the soft wetness of her entrance before pushing her fingers inside from behind. She expects noise then, with the way that the muscles beneath her other hand tense, but Villanelle only draws in a shaky grateful breath. Eve thinks that maybe this isn’t enough for her, just this, and as if on cue Villanelle sinks her own hand down to press at her clit while Eve moves.

It reminds Eve of that first time in the hotel, pulls a strangled moan from her throat. Eve would have touched her, could have buried her own hand between hips and blanket, but it is the same un-checked enthusiasm with which Villanelle approaches everything else – can’t wait, has to touch – has to have it now. Eve lets her.

“Are you going to stay still for me?” Eve rasps, indulgent, and Villanelle sobs out a high, strained _yes_.

Eve is pressed up firmly against the back of one endless toned thigh, rocking absently as she moves inside of Villanelle. Beneath her underwear she is hot and swollen with want, and she thinks that if she could get a better angle she might come from just this. But that would mean moving, stopping, breaking her rhythm. Villanelle might stop then, silence instead of her husky desperate cries. Eve thinks she might die if that were to happen. Instead she continues to press down firmly with her two fingers, rocking them out and in again in shallow flexes and bearing her weight against the strong shoulders beneath her.

Villanelle is twitching with every movement, pushing back and bearing down as Eve’s fingers slide into her. The hand beneath her is circling quickly with jerking, frantic movements and it is clear that she won’t last long – clear that she is already chasing the hazy edges of her second orgasm.

“Pretty.” Husks Eve, hot into back of her neck and strained with her own arousal. Villanelle shivers and tightens around her. It is new to Eve, the silky heat under her hands, and all of it pulls at something in her that is base and greedy and wanting. For a flicker of a moment, she wants to have more of Villanelle – to fuck into her with more fingers, to press herself into her deeper somehow with hard hips or a cock she doesn’t even have. Eve flushes to think like that, feels rude and masculine and aggressive – but it sends a hot thrill through her all the same and she feels like she is melting into a part of herself lay dormant, baring her desires like a nerve.

Beneath her, Villanelle is mewling wetly into the back of her own hand. There is a deep rosy flush spread high over her cheekbones and her lips are red and wet and bitten. Villanelle is soft and needy and stunning and Eve throbs. Everything feels warm and up-close and achingly intimate – she wants to say something, wants to push Villanelle along with praise and whispers and softness.

“Doing so good.” She groans. “You’re such a good girl for me.” She whispers with her lips still flush to Villanelle’s neck, presses the words into sweaty skin like a tattoo, and Villanelle just _goes_. The sound she makes when she comes is a kind of strangled, gratifying sob and everything in her tenses for a moment. Seconds later she is moving again – she turns her head to gasp in air, the hand beneath her moving in longer softer strokes, bracing her knees to push back onto Eve’s fingers. Eve can feel her pulsing.

Eve’s breath feels like fire in her throat and her skin prickles where it brushes against skin and sheets and hair like silk. She thinks about rolling back, finishing herself quick with her fingers but the idea chips away at the confidence and power roiling in her chest and she pushes the impulse down. When she settles her eyes on Villanelle, she is squirming and stretching languidly.

“Again.” Villanelle sighs luxuriously, arching to rub back against her. “Do it again, Eve.”

Eve shivers to be asked, wants to desperately, but she isn’t ready to spend all of this newfound authority at once, understands that it may be finite. Wants to use it wisely. And so she presses a hand firmly against Villanelle, rolls herself away.

“No.Tomorrow morning. If you’re still being good.”

Eve thinks for a moment that this might be the moment where it is too much, where Villanelle will round on her powerful and impatient and snap into her like a feral dog. Instead she nods softly, slips quietly and obediently from the bed, pulls the ruined underwear back up her endless legs with a shivering sigh.

After a moment, her hands return to hover over the pillow that Eve had been lying on. She glances over at Eve in askance.

There is already a gathering of three pillows on the couch, and this pillow is Eve’s best one. Eve frowns in disapproval, but Villanelle takes the pillow with her anyway.

When she is sure that she is gone, Eve rolls to her back, finishes herself shivering and gasping with quick, rough pressure against her clit and fingertips circling her entrance. She doesn’t dip inside, doesn’t need to, and she is too worked up to draw it all out further than a short and bright orgasm. When she rolls to her side, the silver of the necklace on the bedside table catches her eye – the shine of it is patchy where it peeks out from bloody smudges. Beside it sits the gauze and a vacant pool of sticky red.

The knife is gone.

Eve stares at the handle to the door. After a moment, she rises to pad across the floor, shivers at the crisp clicking noise when she locks it.

When she returns to bed, she buries in deep and stares at the golden bar of light beneath the bottom of the bedroom door. She falls asleep like that, waiting to see shadows.

**Author's Note:**

> Tell me what you liked, tell me what you didn't, tell me what you're thinking - comments keep me going. 
> 
> I crave that mineral.


End file.
